Sharmela Kaluzny

Spilt Milk


Image: © Courtesy of Manchester City Galleries

Charlie had noticed her at once on walking into the hotel’s breakfast room that morning. She stood by the generous bow window that faced out to sea, in an attitude of restful contemplation that he found charming.

And somehow the next moment there he was, standing by her side, gazing out the window whose wooden frame was warped, its white paint blistered and peeling. He affected a feigned nonchalance, a favourite air of his, as though he too just wanted to admire the view. What was she looking at, anyway? He saw a little red fishing boat turning in slow circles, round and round, on the limpid – was that the right word? – sea, followed by a flock of squawking seagulls. Well, he assumed they were squawking as usual, frightful buggers. Having stationed himself next to her, he felt something ought to be said. Right-o.

‘Like a metaphor for our own existence, isn’t it,’ he murmured suggestively, motioning with his chin towards the little red boat, without quite knowing what he meant.

Oh, the instinctive urge for an Englishman to open a conversation with a line about the weather! Yet having manfully resisted with this inspired first parry into acquaintanceship, he had unknowingly set the bar too high –

‘Well that depends; we can’t direct the wind, but we can adjust the sails,’ she rejoindered, with an arch look achieved by a finely plucked brow. He opened his mouth, realised he had nothing to add, but by George something had to come out or he’d look like a fish –

‘Seems a rather smashing day out, what?’ And just like that he gave in, weakly, inevitably.

She turned to face him fully now, and although he imagined himself diminished in her regard, he rallied with a hopeful grin.

Looking at her properly, he realised she wasn’t as pretty as he’d first thought, but had pulled off the illusion of being so with her clever accoutrements; dark fringe, red lipstick, the whimsical tilt of the head.

He was nonetheless terribly gratified, and somewhat surprised, when she broke out into a grin of her own, revealing slightly wonky teeth and a dimple.

‘I went in too high and then floundered –’ He felt good, plain honesty was safest at this point.

‘Don’t we all,’ she said, managing to be both gracious and kind. ‘Better the gilded pedestal comes down earlier than be disappointed too far down the line, don’t you think?’

‘Gilded pedestal…?’ Oh God, she’s one of them, he thought, starting to panic. An intellectual!

‘I always start off thinking people are more interesting, fascinating – you know what I mean – than they really are,’ she explained helpfully. ‘And then I’m disappointed.’

‘Ah.’ He was starting to feel a distinct back-handed compliment in all this, but mustering all his dignity: ‘Quite,’ he said. ‘I know exactly how you feel. Shall we cut all the first-time meeting ballyhoo and take a stroll?’

And he gallantly held out his arm.

‘Did you just say ballyhoo?’ she laughed, while miraculously looping her hand under his proffered elbow. Something in the way she looked at him, amused and affectionate, made him wonder if they’d met before.

They turned away from the window, away from the becalmed English Channel with its circling red boat and picturesque band of feathered followers.

And what he was confronted with gave him a jarring shock that reverberated through him as a gentle shudder. A sea of grey and white heads sitting at the tables, some supported by bodies in wheelchairs. Worse than the shock was the recognition. He’d been here before; it wasn’t a hotel. And yet exactly why he was here he couldn’t say. It was like having something on the tip of your tongue, maddeningly just out of reach.

The dread of this half-realised truth made his stomach drop sickeningly, but through some instinct of self-preservation he maintained an outward calm, continued to pick his way non-too elegantly between the tables with the mysterious lady on his arm, garnering a friendly nod from here, a warm smile from there. It seemed everyone liked Charlie. It seemed everyone knew Charlie. And all the while furiously trying to re-orientate himself, until he stumbled a little, and that brought his attention to his feet. And here again was confusion, as surely these same feet had, just days ago, been tramping blithely through the glorious Scottish Highlands, and yet now they moved laboriously, as when one walks on sand that gives at every step.

He swept his hand over his head to push back his hair, a habit of his, and felt his throat constrict. His eyes searched out the large, gilt-framed mirror that he knew with awful certainty was at the end of the room, and the dread that was pressing down, down onto his chest was corroborated by proof, and everything clicked into place: in the mirror he saw the girl-like figure with slim hips, face framed appealingly with that dark fringe – Betsy? Bonnie? – on the arm of a hunch-backed, frail old man. His lower lip was loose, his spider-veined nose overgrown with age, his hair a few grey wisps. From the rheumy eyes a couple of traitorous tears, beastly tears, ran down the runnels in his face. Not again.

They had reached the door that led to the hallway, which led to outside. But he no longer felt like going for a walk. He felt hollowed-out, and unutterably weary.

Then with a great effort, a noble effort, he rallied as he always did: no use crying over spilt milk. But…perhaps they could just sit down, what?

He rummaged, with a hand made clumsy by arthritis, for a tissue in his pocket, and finding none used the flat of his palm to dry his cheeks.

Briony, with benevolent tact, pretended not to notice. She’d been working at the Home all summer to help pay for her university fees, and had seen it many times before.

‘Smashing day,’ Charlie said, as he led them back towards a table.

 

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Sharmela Kaluzny is originally from Kent, and currently lives in Switzerland. Having finished her MA in English Literature, she is now about to start her training as a teacher of English Literature. Her passion has always been stories, whether reading or writing them. She is particularly drawn to exploring the gap between how we see ourselves, and how we are seen in the eyes of others. She has previously been published by Hammond House.

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